


the name of my love is a kingdom

by thebothsandneithers



Series: on purpose i care about you [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Romance, Secret Relationship, Stand Alone, if you want the softest romance and infinite angst I HAVE GOOD NEWS, robb stark is a gift among men he's just having a hard time, robb's formative influences are the women in his life and you can quote me on that, surprise: the stark children were deeply affected by ned's death and Boy Do We Know It, talisa is a princess and I would die for her!, technically my king metaphors are redundant but see if that stops me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29744043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebothsandneithers/pseuds/thebothsandneithers
Summary: Robb had known, even as a child, that his father was a king amongst men. And when he died, Robb had known that he had to do all he could to fill the role, no matter how heavy the scepter, no matter how vast the burden. It was his job, as the eldest, to make sure the North always had a Stark, always had a king, to guide it.And for a while, at least, it worked.Then Robb proved that, no, he couldn’t be everything his father was. No heir of Ned Stark’s would recklessly get a good girl pregnant.
Relationships: Robb Stark & Sansa Stark, Talisa Maegyr/Robb Stark
Series: on purpose i care about you [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007595
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	the name of my love is a kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> me: I feel a normal amount for robb and talisa  
> me 10k later: don't TOUCH me I would DIE for them we deserved EVERYTHING and MORE look how GOOD they are it's DISGUSTING
> 
> holla at makinggold for, as per usual, editing this unholy mess!
> 
> also talisa is dressed like oona chaplin's character on _the hour_ because at this point no one can stop me

Robb had known, even as a child, that not all kings were made equal. Westerosi history was littered with kings charitable and cruel, impulsive and self-possessed. And Robb had known, even as a child, that his father was a king amongst men. Ned Stark wore no crown and subjected no people, but he was a king from the fairy stories, noble and honest and kind. And when he died, that left one less good man in the world, one less righteous king. And when he died, Robb had known that he had to do all he could to fill the role, no matter how heavy the scepter, no matter how vast the burden. It was his job, as the eldest, to make sure the North always had a Stark, always had a king, to guide it.

So, he ran for office. He wore Ned's favorite tie clip, made his handshake steady and gruff, even grew a beard because Sansa pointed out it would make him look older, more able, and critically, more northern. He spent a year working and scheming and sweating and praying, being Robb Stark, minister, Robb Stark, heir to the North, Robb Stark, the man that would one day change the country, if not the world.

And for a while, at least, it worked.

Then Robb was left to his own devices and proved that, no, he couldn't be everything his father was. No heir of Ned Stark's would recklessly get a good girl pregnant.

It hadn't been on purpose, of course. When he'd first met Talisa Maegyr, he had genuinely and truly just wanted to listen to her talk.

They met by pure chance, thrown together for a photoshoot at a fundraiser. Robb hated the photoshoot on principle, because it was blithely sexist and frightfully opportunistic and completely immune to criticism, but he had to take part. He was a new minister with preciously few contacts in the capital, not to mention that he had bungled his only meaningful bit of legislation and was currently skating by on the thin veneer of appearing to be his father. Political survival said he needed to smile, shake hands, pose, and not care that young women were being placed like props on the knees of powerful men.

He awkwardly shook hands with Talisa when they were introduced, then promptly apologized for the situation she had been placed in. Her smile was wry as she looked around at the assembled donors and organizers people of note.

"We all have to get a little muddy when we want to plant a garden," she said, gaze turning back to him. "If this is what it takes to get the funding for improved nutrition for inner city communities, well, it's easier than going door to door."

"I'll try to make this as not-terrible as possible," he promised. He liked that she laughed and clearly meant it, bright and sincere and quickly hidden behind her hand.

"Thank you, minister, that's more than I had hoped for five minutes ago."

It wasn't too bad. He could ignore that Talisa was on his lap and focus instead on all of her beautiful hopeful ideas, about advancing child literacy and improving poverty rates and providing safe, sustainable housing for low-income families. He focused on the passion of her words, the way she wasn't afraid to openly condemn his lack of knowledge on the subjects, even though they were growing problems in the North. He did not notice the soft spice of her perfume. He did not notice how much he liked her hand on his shoulder. He did not notice the way her diamond earrings cast flecks of light on her neck and cheekbone and jaw.

Sansa noticed all of that not noticing, though, because of course she did. After Ned died, it had become her responsibility to make sure his path was as streamlined and perfect as possible. And because Sansa was clever and refined and had not placed a foot wrong since she was eight, she was very, very good at it. She probably could have brought King's Landing to its knees, if only it bothered to give a pretty young woman like her the time. Instead, everyone seemed to think it was much better to relegate her to the tiny, aesthetically pleasing role of posing on Petyr Baelish's knee, because he had donated an obscene amount of money and she just happened to be a woman and there.

Her smile was glamorous and her gaze frosty all afternoon. Robb was not at all surprised when they got to the car and she oh-so-mildly said, "You seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"I was just making conversation. What was I supposed to do, ignore the woman on my lap?" he said, shrugging slightly to shed the defensive hunch to his shoulders.

Sansa tossed him a wry smile, almost proud of his efforts. It was the kind of reproachful deflection politicians were supposed to give, especially ones that campaigned on moral fortitude. If Robb could so easily deny lewd thoughts in private, he would undoubtedly be able to do it in public.

It was probably a good thing he left out the part about how intelligent Talisa was, how engaging, the way she'd thrilled over him not treating her very delicately, because Sansa wasn't in the mood to think the compliments sincere. She had been objectified and the photo evidence had been touted as altruism, and her brother the minister hadn't been able to do a thing to stop it.

But she just sighed, waved the worry away. She accepted Robb saying Talisa's family were activists, just as she accepted his apology for King's Landing being built on the exploitation of others.

"We just have to get into power, then we can change it," she said, her ambition burning away the icy sadness that had clung to her for almost a year.

Robb nodded, focusing on the road. Getting into power. That had seemed easier centuries ago, a lifetime ago, ten months ago, when his father had been alive and living up to his legacy had been mere theory.

* * *

Robb saw Talisa the following week when he stepped out for lunch. It was happenstance of the purest kind, and he found himself exceptionally thankful for it as he waved hello. He could not call up the woman he'd taken a morally dubious photoshoot with, but he could certainly join an acquaintance for lunch.

She was radiant in a pale green dress, a splash of spring despite the fading summer. Her earrings, he noticed, were glass lilies that spilled more flecks of light across her cheek. He focused on her eyes as she said hello.

"I didn't expect to see you," she said warmly. "Working hard, I imagine?"

"Trying to," he smiled. "Not much gets done after Parliament votes for the season."

And no one wanted to do much with the young pup that had failed to get his first bill off the ground, especially when Tywin Lannister had so gladly ground it into the dust.

"So why stay, then?" she asked, sweetly failing to notice the tick of pain in his eyes. "I would have expected you to go back home like all the other ministers."

"Oh, I'm not ready to go back to the cold, yet," he said with a shrug, and then before he could think too hard, "Do you mind if I sit with you for lunch? I've been thinking about the education reform you mentioned last time, and I don't know anyone else as familiar with the Volantene method as you are."

Talisa smiled at him, a shy thing, like a landing butterfly or a doe resting in a glen. For a moment, Robb wasn't sure he knew how to breathe.

He didn't mean to get her number. It, like everything else, just happened. They had talked so much during lunch that they'd barely eaten at all, and _still_ there were whole paragraphs he wanted to say, so Talisa grabbed his hand and scribbled her number onto his palm.

"I'll be expecting you to follow up with me on restructuring school financing," she said, wagging the pen at him.

"Of course," he laughed. When Sansa asked what the smudge of ink was on his palm, he'd shrugged and said it was just a note for later. That was true enough, but he still missed its childlike silliness once it had been washed away.

* * *

Just when Robb started to think maybe this could be something wonderful and good and _more,_ tragedy struck in the form of Talisa's father. Robb had thought her name sounded familiar, blithely assuming Talisa was just that notable a philanthropist. Instead, it was because her father was a rabid activist that thought fists proved his point better than words. His most recent stunt involved taking over a newspaper office by force, though he had evaded arrest.

That made Talisa, as Sansa would say, politically unviable. Being seen with her was tantamount to condoning reckless violence in the name of progress. It didn't matter that Talisa had a resume as long as her arm, or that she would gladly spend her life building schools and educating people on sustainability for free, nor did it matter that she held nothing but honey rich compassion for her fellow man. She was doomed by her father, and she would doom Robb right along with her.

He shouldn't see her again. He shouldn't respond to her texts or answer the phone when he saw her name. He should not think about her at all.

And for a while, he didn't. He let messages get lost in an endless game of phone tag, let himself be distracted by work, let himself forcibly forget the way he looked forward to every time they spoke. There were important things that needed to be done, and Talisa couldn't factor into any of them. Not unless he wanted to sew an already rocky road with thorns.

He found that Talisa kept coming up, though, in the corners and the edges of his conversation, creeping into the end of a sentence that had started somewhere else completely. He started off asking Catelyn about deviating from his initial plan of holding to Ned's political agenda, then ended up talking about education and what innovations were being made there, really, some fascinating things had come up, and surely that would benefit everyone, he had a few contacts he could put her in touch with if she was interested. Catelyn couldn't possibly know that Robb had seen Talisa's face in his head the entire time, but she still managed to sound diplomatically unimpressed.

"You've inherited your father's responsibilities, and I'm afraid they come at a cost," she said, sounding tired and sad for him in a way only a mother could. "The people who backed you and put you into office have expectations, and if you pursue other projects before they get what they view as theirs…"

"I know," he said, holding his breath so he wouldn't sound petulant. "No, I know, it's just…"

It was just that his father's responsibilities were suddenly far more rigid than when Robb had first taken them on. He kept finding empty spaces he couldn't fill, tight spaces that managed to pinch, and he didn't know how no one had noticed before.

"If you want to hold on to your seat, you'll need to impress all those in King's Landing that might decide to go against you," Catelyn told him. "Things aren't like they used to be, a minister can't get by on the power of his district alone. He needs friends, allies in the capital. I know you have all of these wonderful plans, darling, I want to see them happen, too, but right now you'll have to set them aside and do exactly what is expected of you."

"Is that how Dad did it?"

Catelyn chuckled, a _hm-hm_ that was as dry as it was weary. "By the time things had changed, he'd been too well established to uproot. People make exceptions for things they're accustomed to."

"The double standards here are sickening."

"You sound like you've been talking to Sansa."

He was quiet for a moment, aching to ask if doing the expected thing meant he wasn't allowed to have lunch with pretty Volantene brunettes or if that just referred to kissing them, but no, he wasn't that foolish and he certainly wasn't that stupid. He knew what Catelyn would say. _Darling, you can't throw your life away for a pretty girl you just met._ _Girls come and go, but your family and your legacy is forever._

And she would be right. Talisa had sparked a dozen new ideas in him, but it was Sansa who had helped him into office, Catelyn who counseled him through it, Ned who had been sacrificed for his ascension in the first place. He had to do right by his family, he had to do right by the Stark legacy, he _had_ to.

And then Robb called Jon and it was like he was right back where he'd stared.

"I don't know," he sighed into the phone, in response to Jon asking how he was. "Things are fine, just…girl trouble, I guess."

"Tell me about it," Jon huffed, so aggrieved it made Robb laugh. He could imagine his brother's worried frown, all the way in his monastery in the North.

"What, don't tell me that wildling girl tried to kiss you again."

"What, _no,_ she didn't—it's fine," Jon stammered, making Robb laugh again. "I just—I need to talk to her, explain. I mean…Ygritte knows I swore an oath. It'll be fine."

Maybe if he'd made an oath to the gods like Jon, instead of a piecrust promise to himself, Robb would not have gone to dinner with Talisa three days later.

* * *

It was a business dinner, he told himself, as well as an apology for having been such an unmitigated ass. That was all. He really did want to institute the education reform they'd discussed, and he wanted to be ready for whenever it was deemed politically viable. But no one on his team knew a thing about education, particularly not the innovations being explored in Volantis, so really, he'd _had_ to call Talisa. They were going to talk how to improve youth literacy rates in the more rural, wildling areas, and try to implement a more hands-on blend of classwork and trade building. Just a research dinner, a show of good faith.

That's what he had told Sansa, and what he'd marked it as in his phone. And that was certainly how she greeted him: with a firm handshake, a pleasant _Minister Stark_ , and a flawless smile like always. If she'd noticed the pointed stretch of silence in the with last few weeks, she did not say.

They stayed on task well into the entrée, Robb too anxious and chastened to let himself think about how her smile (her real one, not this precise, professional thing) must taste like chocolate and oranges.

And then Robb mentioned somewhere along the line that Bran was paraplegic, so she asked how the family had adjusted following his accident, and then Robb found himself laughing over old childhood memories with her.

"Your childhood sounds like it's from a storybook," Talisa chuckled. "Snowy mountains and horseback riding and snowball fights."

"It's not that special," he said, shaking his head. "I'm sure your childhood was just as blessed. _Volantis,_ all pomegranates and games of _cyvasse,_ come on _._ "

She looked at him for a long moment, smile fading ever so slightly, and Robb knew that all of her pleasantries this evening had not been made in ignorance.

"You found out about my father," she said, a silken statement of fact.

"Yes," he said, putting down his glass of wine. "I…I'm sorry."

"That he's my father, or that you stopped speaking to me the moment you learned about him?" she asked, and it was remarkable how her expression cooled without substantially changing, the work of a head tilt and a narrowed eye. "I don't need you to spare my pride, Robb. I've been through quite enough to protect it on my own."

"I'm not trying to," he said. "I would never do you the dishonor of lying to you."

"But you'll ignore me just fine."

"That…that was poorly done. I'm sorry."

"I know my father's a radical, and that makes it very uncomfortable for politicians here in King's Landing, but I'm not a toy for you to pick up and put down when it's convenient."

"No."

"I've been in King's Landing long enough to know that people view career women as second class, and I won't let myself fall subject to it."

" _Never_ ," he said, pain making the word stick in his throat. "It might not mean much, but I promise, that was never part of the reason. I shouldn't have just abandoned you like that, especially not without speaking to you first. It's just…easy, in King's Landing, to get caught up in history. No one is judged on their own merit, they're all just a culmination of their grandfathers and cousins and friends and the things they read and the people they quote. But I…I know better. I know you can't control who your father is."

Talisa considered him for one long moment, two, three, then she softened.

"Yes," she murmured. "I'm sure you very much do."

"Does…this mean I'm forgiven? Or at least, am _able_ to be forgiven?" he asked her, because he didn't think he'd like reading the deeper meaning in her eyes.

"Only if you buy me dessert," Talisa said, and a tiny smile broke through to the surface.

Robb ordered an orange panna cotta with chocolate shavings for her and a raspberry lemon one for him so he wouldn't let his gaze linger on her lips.

It almost worked.

Robb drove her home and walked her to the door, just like his mother had taught him. Talisa smiled and glowed in the nearby streetlight, all fragments of disapproval forgotten.

"I'm glad we were able to talk," Talisa told him, bag in hand.

"It needed to happen," he said sheepishly, because a little extra contrition never hurt anyone.

But she shook her head, reaching out to touch his arm. "Not that, though, _yes,_ we did need to talk. But I'm glad we met as Robb and Talisa, not as activists and politicians, not as anyone's children. Just…us."

Robb tilted his head, the words making him fuzzy, somehow, floaty, almost. "Yeah," he said, unable to help a smile. "It almost feels like we were breaking the rules."

Talisa smiled and held out her hand, because this was a work dinner, after all. Robb shook it, twice and gruff, then let his fingertips linger when he pulled away, and that wasn't on purpose at all.

She paused for a moment, hand on the knob, then inhaled all her courage and turned back.

"Will it ruin the moment if I invite you in?' she asked, and he shook his head.

He sat on her couch. He accepted the offered glass of wine. He leaned closer and closer as he listened to her talk, hands moving energetically with each point. Finally, their faces were a hand's breadth apart, and they just looked at each other, eyes roaming quietly, taking in as much territory as they could.

"We probably shouldn't be doing this," she whispered. "Not after our conversation at dinner."

"No," he agreed.

"My father would go ballistic if he knew you were here, ironically enough. Hating institutions, and all that."

"Mine wouldn't be happy, either."

Talisa blinked, and Robb found himself holding his breath, waiting for the moment she said _I'm sorry about your father, he was a great man, you have very big shoes to fill, I'm sure you're doing great._

But instead, she just leaned a little closer and whispered conspiratorially, "If I'm honest, I've been pushing my luck, lately."

"Why?"

"Because if you weren't going to be coming back, I wanted to have as much to remember you by as I could."

"For what?"

She shrugged, a shy, girlish smile stealing over her lips. "To keep in my pocket for days when I'm sad."

"You're very clever," he murmured, then kissed her because he very well might have fallen in love with her weeks back.

She looked down after the kiss, glancing at him nervously through her eyelashes. "We shouldn't do this, either."

"It'll be fine," he whispered, then kissed her again.

Later, he said it was because he'd been drunk. That was true, though he'd only had a glass and a half of wine all evening. He was instead drunk on the sight of her, the sound of her voice, the fact she saw him as Robb, just Robb, instead of as a minister or a man trying so very hard to please his dead father.

He was still a liar, though. It was not fine that they'd had gloriously sloppy sex on her couch and then again in her bed, or that he had kissed her twelve times the following morning before finally dragging himself from her arms, or even that she had given him a chocolate muffin for breakfast on his way out of the door, nor finally was it fine that he had bounced through a guiltless walk of shame to his car.

It was not fine. But he relished every moment of it.

* * *

Roose Bolton betrayed Robb on the last warm day of the year. The sun was thick, the birds chirped, the air smelled of early autumn flowers, and Roose plunged a dagger in Robb's chest with practiced ease. At least he'd had the decency not to land it in Robb's back.

Roose had been a reliable supporter of Ned's from the very beginning. He attended fundraisers, supported policies, and used his connections to further the Stark cause. He had even chosen loyalty over family after his shit stain of a son had tried to make Sansa a blood sport. Robb had assumed—they had _all_ assumed—that Roose could never be shaken from the Starks.

And then Roose told Robb over lunch that he and Sansa were children playing dress up, clinging to the dusty legacy of a man cold and dead in the ground.

Robb had never appreciated just how unsettling, how frightening Roose Bolton could be, reading familiarity in the man's formality. Now, though, Robb could see just how much the man liked to make people writhe. No wonder people called him 'the leech lord' behind his back. He would gladly bleed a man dry, just to hear him beg.

Robb had tried his best, of course, his voice level despite the squalling panic in his head, making promises, threats, anything to make him stay. But Roose's tiny, satisfied little smile never shifted.

"Tywin makes a far more impressive ally than a minister that can't survive outside his father's playpen," he said, voice smooth as lake ice.

"I don't need to be impressive," Robb shot back, losing his temper because that was so much easier than admitting he was afraid. Amazing how Ned had left him an entire kingdom, and Robb was letting it slip away in a year or less. "Do not go against me, Roose, or I will make what happened to the Karstarks look like a mercy. You will have _nothing_ left in the North, everyone will know you are a backstabber and a traitor. You will have nothing to go back to, no home, no future, no friends, nothing but the grave you've dug for yourself here and now."

Roose picked up his glass in a mocking little toast, like Robb's pretty little speech went beautifully with his lemon water.

"That's fine," he said, carefully setting the glass down. "I've found the southron climate currently suits me more than mountains and snow. Besides, by the time I actually _need_ to return north, I'm sure young wolves like you will have proved themselves. Or not. Politics always is a trickier endeavor than we like to think."

"My father should have destroyed you the moment your filthy bastard son set hand on my sister. What kind of creature raises a monster like _that_ ," Robb snarled, because that was all he could do. Snarl and bristle and try to look terrible, because Roose had ripped out his claws one by one and laughed as he'd done it.

"Your father should not have sickened and died," Roose said mildly. "Leaving a boy like you on the seat of power, what a farce. I'm honestly amazed no one's tried this already."

Robb shoved himself away from the table, though Roose made him pause with the lightest touch on his wrist.

"Before I forget, minister, the Lannisters send their regards. Oh, and don't worry, I'll cover the meal."

Robb left the restaurant, unsure if he was more ashamed of never having seen Roose's treachery, or for having been dismissed from his own betrayal.

* * *

Sansa's gaze turned icy and distant when he told her, taking shelter on the faraway tundra that always hid beneath her smile. It was a skill he admired, honestly. It let her ask the appropriate questions, like _why, how long, will this ruin us_ , let her guess what would happen next, who they needed to call and reassure and threaten and save. It kept her upright and capable while her champion collapsed into a chair, hollowed out and shaken.

 _I've ruined it,_ he thought, again and again, a thin refrain that had started the moment Roose explained what he'd done.

His father had respectably furthered the Stark dynasty, and Robb's legacy was killing it where it stood.

The office air was thick, impossible to think in. Sansa escaped quickly enough, needing to be useful, needing to run down leads and busy her hands and do all she could to save a sinking ship.

That might have been an excuse, though. She probably just needed a reason to stop looking at him. She had given her life away to help him with his political aims, and he had rewarded her with _this._

He found himself leaving soon after, feet taking him away from the turmoil of government. He couldn't—he just—for one moment, all Robb needed was to slough off the king's mantel that had been thrust onto his back and just be a young man that could rage and reel without cameras or journalists or opponents or _anyone_ looking at him. He wanted his family and he wanted peace but he could not find either in the capital, so he sought Talisa instead.

She was quiet for one moment, two, after he'd called and babbled that he'd like to see her, he was sorry, this was such short notice but he _just—_ , then said she could put the kettle on, if he liked. The kindness in her voice almost made him weep because it was so _effortless._

Talisa welcomed him in like they had been doing this for years. She asked if he would like chamomile or mint, touched his arm in reassurance, told him to sit. She wore a lovely grey dress with a full skirt and white piping, and he did not tell her seeing her was like coming home.

Instead, he did as he was told, biting back the flood of words that kept threatening to drown him, not sure why he had become so shaky and panicked like this. Not even Ned's death had rattled him. No, that was a wound he'd never stopped to examine, because if he didn't look at it, if he could keep walking, surely it wasn't so bad.

"I'm sorry," he let himself say, seated stiff and uncertain on her couch, clasping a pretty white mug so he wouldn't reach out to touch her. "I know…I know it seems like I'm breaking my word, I said I wouldn't treat you like a _thing,_ a toy I can just take off the shelf, but this isn't—Talisa, I'm not—" He dragged in a breath, tried to calm himself down. "Sorry, I've just had a really… _really_ shit day."

"You don't need to apologize, Robb, you're allowed to just _go_ somewhere when you're feeling bad. You don't need to block everything out on a calendar."

He laughed at that, the sound thin and tannic and sad.

"But if I did, then I might have free time."

"And what's so wrong with that?"

"I lose focus. I make mistakes, and I can't afford those right now. My father never made mistakes."

Talisa took his hand in hers, turning it over so she could study his palm. "What happened?" she asked, fingertips tracing the lines of his hand.

"One of my biggest supporters just left to join the _Lannisters,_ " he said bitterly, mouth pursing. The words were worse than salt licks or peppers or limes, because they were obvious. Of course, anyone looking to wound a Stark would give their weapons to a Lannister, all of King's Landing knew that and yet none of the Starks have ever prepared for it.

Robb hadn't thought arrogance was a family vice. But perhaps they just all suffered from a blind faith that everyone else played by agreed upon rules.

"What? Why would he do that?" Talisa asked.

"Because he doesn't think I can get anywhere without riding my father's coat tails. Because he likes to win. Because I'm a bad bet."

"Did he tell you this?"

"Yes. Probably trying to avoid and unholy alliance suit," he muttered, then began to explain when he caught her look of confusion. "Major donors can't collude with two politicians that directly oppose each other, or else they can be taken to court for unholy alliance charges. It's like domestic war profiteering, insider trading."

"But…why now, why hurt you like this? The vote's done, he's not getting anything by switching sides."

"No, but I can't attack him, either. Not in this dead period, and certainly not when he and Tywin have had _months_ to prepare. I should have seen it, I should have known, you can't trust a man that enjoys taking the skin off his enemies."

But the men Roose had been flaying had also been _Stark_ enemies, so Robb had so foolishly, so arrogantly believed that knife could never be turned on him.

"It's not your fault," Talisa said, squeezing his hand. "You're doing your best in a terrible, _terrible_ situation."

"Well, clearly it's not enough. I just—I'm sick of being forced to make a choice where both options are shit instead of actually taking me closer to what I want," he said, the words tearing out of him in a reckless, devastated huddle. "I'm tired of the back room deals and the lobbying and the fighting. When I took office, I wanted to change the _world,_ make it better, _tangibly better_. Now any attempt at change is killed on sight, while anything supporting this—this _hegemony_ is praised like it's from the mouth of the gods. We've talked about ten different ways to help schooling in the North, Talisa, and I promise you each one will be _months_ of uphill battles, _even though_ we're teaching people to help themselves. I'm sick of being useless, I'm sick of just—"

Not being his father. Because that was what everyone wanted, even himself. They wanted him to be Ned because everything had been _easier_ with Ned, Ned didn't make any alarming declarations, Ned didn't protest at established norms, Ned wasn't young and new and brimming with ideas. Ned had kept everything pulled together and reliable and fine and now that Robb was supposed to be in control, everything had fallen apart.

"Robb, look at me." She pressed her hands to his face, touch gentle and cool. He looked at her reluctantly, afraid she might see something in his face she didn't like. "You're enough, Robb. What you're doing is enough."

He blinked hard, determined that he would not cry. Not here, not now, not when Talisa was looking at him like he was a prince among men.

"I don't think that's true," he said, because he couldn't lie to her, not even when he would have liked to.

"Why's that?

"Because I'm here right now and we _both_ know it's a bad idea. Because my father would be _so_ disappointed in me for everything I've done, everything I _haven't_ done. Because—" His breath caught, but he couldn't look away, couldn't bear to lose a second of seeing the simple goodness in her face.

"Because what, Robb?"

"Because I think I love you."

And Talisa blinked at him, once, twice, leaning back in surprise. But she didn't let go, and she didn't pull away.

"There are worse things to have done," she said, and then she smiled like he was going to be alright.

* * *

The only way forward was forward, Ned had liked to say, so Robb got up, took a shower, and went into the office the next day. He gave a speech to his staff about perseverance, about weathering any storm, and then spent the next three days making calls and putting out fires.

Some, like the Greatjon, boomed their support and promised to ruin Roose, traitor that he was. Some agreed it was a shocking turn of events, shocking…but not all _that_ surprising, really, considering Robb _had_ failed to deliver any meaningful bit of legislation since he took office.

Catelyn was the hardest to speak to. She sounded so, _so_ sad when the news broke, lost like she was back at Ned's funeral, not seeing anything through the grey mist before her eyes.

"Okay," she had murmured, and Robb wanted to break his own bones for causing this hurt, his and Roose's both. "Okay, well…we'll handle this like we always do."

The shame of it hung around his neck, thick and black and stinking. Every time he had to go to the Red Keep, he could see it in the eyes of the aides and advisors, ministers and maesters. Robb Stark, the boy that had been so blessed, the man that could not lose, did not seem able to win any battle that actually mattered.

He tried to leave it behind, but it slipped into conversation when he called Jon, twisted the air when he invited Talisa over, crept into the set of Sansa's shoulders when they spoke. Even his prayers were cursed by it, regardless of whether they were in a godswood or a sept, his doubt and pain poisoning everything he said.

Robb wished his father was there, patient and temperate and kind, ready to press his hand against the back of Robb's neck when he hugged him, always prepared to offer a wise word. Instead, all Robb had was a cluttered handful of memories and a sturdy political record he never seemed to match.

The only way was forward, but Robb didn't know if forward lay at the bottom of a bog.

* * *

"You seem unhappy."

"How's that?"

Talisa shrugged, sending pleasant ripples across the bathwater. She had her hair piled high on her head so it wouldn't get wet, accentuating the lovely stretch of her neck, revealing the sweet smatter of freckles on her shoulders.

"Just…when you talk about these things, policies and attitudes that need to be fixed, it's like…it's like you're not someone who can change them." She shrugged again, this time a little more self-conscious. "I mean…Robb, you _are_ a minister."

"Yes, but a minister who has nothing to show for being almost a year in office."

"Then _make_ something," Talisa said, poking him in the stomach with her foot.

Robb caught her ankle, pulling her closer as he thought of how to explain. "It's…not that easy. I can't get enough support to back my ideas, ideas I believe in and want to see changed, especially the ones these comfortable old men would hate. They let me into their club thinking I'm exactly like my father, and they become nervous when I start to sound like my mother."

Talisa gave Robb a look as he pulled her into his lap, an adorable line forming between her eyebrows. A chaste trail of bubbles covered her chest, tantalizing for how immaterial they were. He would have kissed them away, except Talisa clearly was still interested in talking.

"Catelyn Stark has been a cornerstone of activism and philanthropy for _years_ , what's wrong with that?" Her mouth twisted in disapproval as she spoke, a dainty thing that tested his resolve to behave.

He gave a grim smile to distract himself, shaking his head.

"These are the same people that think pretty girls on the knees of notable donors is a good photoshoot instead of a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"Fair point," she mumbled, then _finally_ leaned down to kiss him.

His was a world that demanded he hide every woman he cared about: Catelyn and her wise council, Sansa and her shrewd political cunning, Talisa and her steady, nurturing hands. They were things to be cared for in secret, stolen in snatches and reshaped into something presentable for the public.

He couldn't wait until he built a life where he didn't have to _hide._

"If you could do anything, what would it be?" Talisa asked a little while later. She was more flushed than before, though Robb couldn't tell if that was due to the heat of the water or the attentions of his mouth.

"Be prime minister," he laughed, "just like everyone else in Parliament."

"Okay," she said. She shook the water and bubbles off her hands so she could trace his eyebrows, his nose, his cheekbones with her thumbs. "You're prime minister. What then?"

"I'd finally pass that education reform we're always talking about," he said, squeezing her waist and making her giggle. "I'd tax pickles, so people would think twice before putting them on sandwiches."

"Very ethical."

"It's better than banning them outright."

"Then you might as well go after putting maraschino cherries in drinks, too."

"That's a problem for you, is it?"

"Very much so, yes. They're too sweet."

"Alright, I'll tax maraschino cherries, too, and I'd take a walk with you in the park outside the Red Keep every day and I'd never let go of your hand."

Talisa looked down at him, her smile half there like she'd forgotten about it. She studied him like she'd forgotten what he looked like in the time it took to blink, searching through his features like there was some secret there, some hidden truth. Talisa shook her head slightly as if to banish a thought, then looped her arms around his neck.

"And you're not just doing this because it's fun to break the rules?" she asked, trying very hard to sound like his answer didn't matter half as much as it did.

"No." He said it softly, and a fool would have said he was afraid of someone else hearing. The words were just for Talisa, a pearl she could hold in her hand on days when the sky turned grey. "Honestly, that's the worst part. I wish there was never a rule against it in the first place."

"That's very good to hear," Talisa whispered back, and then kissed him again.

He hadn't merely said it for her benefit, either. It felt like lying every time Robb had to skirt around the truth of them, sneaky and dishonest and smearing everything with the taste of guilt. He didn't want to be ashamed over laughing the entire time they dried each other off, or the way he chased her from the bathroom with a towel or the way they fell together on her bed. He wasn't ashamed of kissing her careless and comforting and slow, still breaking into occasional giggles as he continued to towel her off and made sure her skin was dry with his mouth. And he refused to be ashamed of kissing her one last time before they fell asleep, both of them warm and smelling of lavender and bergamot and clary sage. He refused to be a king that lied to his people because he was nervous about being seen as weak.

Weakness was only ever compromising on what you believed, Ned had taught him, right from the beginning. Everything else was just bad luck.

* * *

Sansa threw herself into the Bolton problem, body and soul. She blamed herself, nobly, foolishly, because it was her job to make sure he never had things to fear.

Rob didn't fight her too hard, because at least her guilt was productive. A Sansa with nothing to do was a Sansa that fell into bad behaviors, so as contrary as it seemed, he could let her have this.

He should have been more vigilant, though. He didn't realize just how far she had spiraled until she asked over dinner how exactly Robb was going to get revenge.

"You can't let this stand," she said, almost laughing, sharp and thin. She looked like she thought he was joking with her, playing dumb when really he had a Bolton head on a spike. "If Roose Bolton gets to cut you like this, what's to stop all the rest?"

"So, now we heal our wounds by making others bleed, is that it?"

Robb would have liked to cut Roose down for ever daring to betray him like this, to bury him alive for boiling Robb's flesh in vinegar ( _Tywin makes a far more impressive ally than a minister that can't survive outside his father's playpen_ ), would have liked to carry out every threat he had made at the table, but he had no valid reason. Robb was no coward and he brooked no treason, but he was just as a rule, and legally Roose had done no wrong. Not all kings were made equal, and he would not be the kind that destroyed a man over damaged pride.

Sansa gave him a long, calculated look, one much darker and cooler than he'd ever seen on her face. He barely knew her when she said, "Haven't they done enough, Robb? Haven't we suffered _enough_?"

And that was when Robb realized that maybe he'd failed her a long, long time ago. Out of all the stories and lessons and tales, he couldn't think of a king that let men taunt his sister with a knife, much less one that worked with the tormentor's father later.

He knew she had a point, Roose had taken the skin off his back and left him looking weaker than ever. But to hear her speak, Robb was certain she just wanted blood. And maybe it would save him, maybe this big, grand, ruthless show of power would shock all of Westeros into respecting him. Mostly, though, Robb thought she just wanted the mean satisfaction of salting the earth with Bolton ashes, and that was no justice. That was vengeance, plain and simple.

Robb knew Sansa was hurt and afraid, knew it when she said she was sick of mediocre men getting their way because they liked to cheat, knew it when she stood tall and fragile and declared that she would rather inspire fear in their enemies than amusement. He understood, of course he did, this was his life as well as hers. He just wished he understood sooner that he hadn't talked her out of her anger, he'd just talked her into calling him on the floor.

"How's your social life?" she asked, and he shrugged, thankful they had moved on to simpler topics.

"Good, fine. I'm glad I can at least see people, now that things have calmed down."

"Mm, but you're lucky though. She fell right into your lap."

Robb stared at her, mind terribly, terribly blank for a moment, because she knew. She knew about him and Talisa because of course she did, because she was clever, clever Sansa, the woman that could look and listen and scheme, because the world thought her too pretty to be of notice. Of course she knew and of course she had said nothing. Of course she had hoped, expected, _needed_ Robb to be better than this. She had trusted him to pass his bill, she had trusted him not to fall in love with a political timebomb, she had trusted him not to let Roose slip through his fingers, and now that Robb had disappointed her at every turn, she would display her wrath.

That didn't mean he welcomed her claws on his neck.

Her words were ugly and precise, _Roose will gut you with the fact that your booty call's father is barely a step away from a terrorist,_ a perfect stiletto he hadn't been aware she knew how to use.

He tried to stay pragmatic and upright, to not make this worse than it was, to staunch the bleeding before it became too much.

Her anger was deserved, he supposed. Robb genuinely couldn't remember the last time he'd made his sister _happy,_ and he saw her every single day.

"We can't all be perfect like you," he said, apologetic and petulant and a mess.

Her expression fractured a moment, because _he_ should have been. He should have been perfect because that was what she had told him from the beginning, that was the _only_ way to win. He should have been noble and perfect and reliable and honest and everything his father would have wanted him to be. He should not have left her alone.

"I should probably get going," she said, picking up her things.

"Are you going to tell anyone?" Robb asked, and he hated the cowardice in his voice, the doubt of his own sister, because he should have been better but he _wasn't,_ he was selfish and afraid and so, _so_ desperatelywanted to savor his last few moments with Talisa, even if they were damned.

"No, I'm not going to tell anyone," she said, and he knew that he had failed her yet again.

* * *

Robb knew things could not stay as they were. He fought with Sansa in the bare spaces, through a glance, a clipped word, sniping each other over the Boltons and Talisa, Talisa and the Boltons. He skirted the truth with his mother, afraid that at any moment she would reveal that she _also_ knew what he'd done, and she'd been waiting for him to at least _try_ to save his career as she desperately patched things up in the North. He spent mornings and afternoons and nights with Talisa, taking walks with her and Grey Wind, watching movies, kissing her shoulder blades, and mumbling honey sweet nothings in her hair and pretending he was someone else.

"Sansa's just trying to help you," Talisa murmured one night, after he admitted to having a knock down fight with her earlier that week. He wasn't sure what had started it. He never _did_ know what started him arguing with his sister, these days. He only knew they were in the middle of a fight when they tried to bludgeon the other with each new sentence.

"That's not trying to help," he scoffed, tracing his fingers along her collarbone as he remembered the vicious cold that had poured off Sansa's skin. She had sworn to him with glaciers in her eyes that she would fight this fight over Talisa if it meant she was then allowed to fix the world, and it had cut him open. It still hurt, really, perfect Sansa doing the math and deciding that her brother was no longer an asset, an ally, _her brother,_ but just another thing she had to step over to get what she wanted. "She's just pissed things aren't going her way."

Talisa shifted, shaking her head. "You know there's more to it than that. She's pragmatic, not heartless."

"She doesn't get to make my decisions for me, I don't care how clever she is."

Talisa frowned down at the sheets, avoiding his gaze. "Even if she's right? You said yourself, things are _not good_ for you right now, and I—"

"I don't want to talk about that," he sighed, then pressed his face into the crook of her neck. He could still smell traces of her perfume, jasmine and clove and some unknown scent he could spend years trying to name.

Her hand was warm and gentle when she pressed it against his neck. "It's just…I know how these things go, Robb. The only person I speak to in my family is my brother, and even then it's only on holidays or when something serious happens. I don't want that for you, I couldn't stand it."

"And I know Sansa, and she'll only accept things on _her_ terms," he said, stubbornly omitting that yes, actually Sansa had a point, because it was a tainted point that refused to admit anyone else's. If she had devoted any energy to actually _helping_ him figure out this mess instead of stabbing him with how incredibly _wrong_ he was, maybe they would have found a solution by now. But that was Sansa. He'd only slightly been exaggerating when he'd told her she would destroy anything that offended her.

Talisa looked at him for a long moment, then rolled out of his reach. She sat up, legs hanging off the side of the bed. "I don't want to come between you and your family, Robb."

"And I don't want anyone blaming you for something you can't control, much less disrespecting you for it. I don't care what the reasons are for why we shouldn't be together, you're a person, not an inconvenience."

She laughed and stood. "Thanks, I really…I'm glad you think that."

He propped himself up on one elbow, suddenly wary. "I _do._ "

"Okay, but _why?"_ She looked back at him, almost desperately, holding her elbows as she stood barefoot in her pink sleep shift. "I—Robb, we've only known each other for a few months, and—I'm not saying it's a bad thing," she said, holding out a hand to stop his protest, "but you can't—I mean, I get it, you're young, you can always start another career if you have to, but that's _such_ a sacrifice, and Robb—it's not just that, it's—it's _bigger_ than that. My family is a _mess,_ and I would _die_ before I let something as strong and close and good as yours be ripped apart."

"Hey, Talisa, no, this has nothing to do with you," he said, sitting upright. "You've done nothing wrong."

"You can't say that when we have to sneak around to see each other."

"That's not your fault, that's… _everything else_ being shitty, me included. I don't _blame_ you for any of this. You've done nothing wrong."

"I mean, I have, a little bit."

"Like _what_?" he laughed, shaking his head.

She stared at him, the misery in her eyes palpable long before she spoke.

"Robb, I…I think I'm pregnant."

He stared at her, not quite understanding. "What?"

"I think I—no, sorry, no, I _know_ I'm pregnant, I saw my doctor and she said…she said I'm pregnant."

"I—how?" he asked, feeling very lost and stupid and strange. "But we—it was only that one time we didn't—"

"I know," she said, still holding herself on the other side of the room.

"And no one knows—"

"I know."

"Tal, I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I _know_ ," she said again, fat, heavy teardrops dripping down her cheeks. "I know, and I'm sorry, Robb, I know this is the last thing you need to happen right now, your family's probably going to be _furious,_ but I promise I didn't plan this, I am sorry, Robb, I'm so sorry."

" _Sorry_? What—Talisa—no, hey, don't do that," he said, as she broke into big, messy sobs. He pushed himself out of bed and held her arms, trying to get her to look at him. "What do you mean, I don't think you planned this."

"I just—I know this happens, sometimes, people try to blackmail politicians, and I—I'll take any test you want, I promise I'm not trying to trick you, Robb, just please don't make me do this alone."

"Oh, darling," he said, choking on the pain of this moment, because Talisa, his beautiful, sweet, endlessly kind Talisa, was pregnant and barefoot and crying and scared because she thought he would abandon her at the first sign of things becoming difficult.

He pulled her into a hug, shaking his head. "I would _never_ do that to you, and I'm so, _so_ sorry if I ever made you think that. No, Talisa, I won't make you do this alone."

"I wanted—I wanted to tell you sooner, _better,_ and I promised myself I wouldn't _cry,_ " Talisa laughed, a piteous little thing as she valiantly tried to stop her tears.

"It's okay, hey, it's okay, this is a lot, you're alright."

He leaned back to look at her, hands still on her shoulders. Her nose was blotchy, her eyes big and red and afraid. Robb brushed his thumb over her cheek, erasing the trail of a few tears.

"Do you want me to get rid of it?" she whispered.

Robb blinked a few times, then let out a breath. "Can we—can we—hold on, just…let me adjust. Here," he said, grabbing one of his sweaters from the dresser and handing it to her. "Let's go to the living room and talk about this."

He made her tea, because that was the purest, most sincere thing they could offer each other: tea and sympathy, attention and time. She was curled up in an armchair, her sleep shift peeking out from beneath his sweater, her hand absently resting on Grey Wind's head as she watched him come closer.

The sight broke something in Robb, or perhaps filled something in him, a balloon of light that stretched and spread and pushed aside all his bones and organs and blood until he thought he might float. He loved her. He loved her. He loved her like a sunrise or a mountain peak or a rain shower in spring and he loved her without flaws or complexities or pride. And it didn't matter if she was politically unviable or if girls came and went, it didn't matter if her family ruined his career or if his enemies used her to gut him. He would never turn her away after she confessed that she was pregnant and afraid and would do anything to make sure he stayed.

"Come here," he said, taking her by the hand and pulling her to the couch. She obediently followed and settled against him, legs folding over his, head resting against his shoulder as he handed her the mug of tea, tucked her feet away beneath a blanket.

"I don't want you to end the pregnancy if you don't want to," he told her after a moment, voice steadier than he could have hoped. "If you want to go through with this…okay. That's not a problem."

"But it _is_ , Robb. Pretending this doesn't have _huge_ ramifications doesn't help us."

"It's not a problem for me," he amended.

"How are you so _calm_?" she asked, a new wash of tears trickling down her cheeks.

"It's my turn," he said, kissing her temple.

"And you're not worried?"

"Oh, I'm _very_ worried. But I'm telling you that doesn't matter."

Talisa was quiet for a long moment, face tucked against his shirt. When she spoke, he almost didn't hear her.

"And this doesn't mean you're giving up?"

"Giving up what?"

"Your goals. Your dreams. Don't do that for me, Robb, don't you dare throw _everything_ away just because of me."

He drew in a breath, thinking for a long moment before he let it out.

The truth came in three parts and they went like this: first, Robb knew that within the week, he would ask Talisa Maegyr to marry him. And it wasn't just because she was pregnant, and it wasn't because he was young and foolish and smitten. He wanted to marry her because it broke his heart to leave her in the mornings and not know when he would be allowed to see her again. He wanted to marry her because he knew that his family could love her if they just tried, father be damned, and he knew that she would help him make the country better than it already was.

Second, his family would be unhappy with him at best, horribly betrayed at worst, and he didn't have an answer for them. He couldn't politically say why he had done this, couldn't explain where the advantages were, couldn't justify any of his actions other than they made him happy, and honestly, after a year of misery and mourning, wasn't it enough that he be _happy?_ He prayed they would understand, but he was prepared to continue on, even if they didn't.

Finally, Robb could not be his father, and he was sick of the despair that came with trying. The signs had been everywhere, from the moment he had needed to change the way he looked to convince everyone that he would be the perfect heir, an exact replica of Ned in word and thought and deed, but it was only now that he had noticed. Robb loved Ned in this life and the next, but he could not exist by merely pretending to be him. It was as his mother had said—things were not like they used to be, though she was correct in ways that neither had anticipated.

He had to be something else, derived both from Ned and something more. If he was to be a king, he would fight and die as one, defending his people and his land and his love. He may fail, _gods,_ might he fail, but he could never survive knowing he did not try.

"No," he finally told Talisa. "No, I'm not giving anything up."

"You're going to fight for this."

"I'm going to fight for this."

"Okay. Because I'm going to be pissed if we had all those conversations about education reform for nothing."

He laughed and wrapped his arms around her tighter, thankful, at least, that he had someone to laugh with. Nothing was sure, nothing was promised, but at least he had Talisa there in his arms, and together they could laugh and help each other be brave.

Robb knew this wasn't at all what Ned would do, but he thought that maybe, maybe his father would be proud.


End file.
